


The Castle and the Fool

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kingdom of Aegror is in shambles. The newest king has let his cities be run to the ground by the ever shrinking population of nobles and lords. Jaelyle, raised as a military commander since birth, wants change, but though he is next in line to be king, he knows his sadistic fiancee with her hands already deep in royal politics will only bring further destruction to the once-beautiful kingdom. Forced to focus on the upcoming war, Jaelyle can't see that other forces are brewing to change the way the kingdom is run.</p><p>Ayşe's clan was slaughtered by an army from the Aegror kingdom and now he wants revenge. Training for years to disguise himself as a jester, he decides to quietly slip into the royal palace and begins to understand just how deep the decay that began with his clan's destruction goes.</p><p>Both struggling to find peace in a roiling world, how will fate bind the two who desperately wish for a change? And who is the real enemy in the dying kingdom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Castle and the Fool

“’e’s got them eyes, cap’n. Them ones that them filthy monsters ’ave. What wouldja like me ta do wiv ’im?”

“Lemme see.”

Ayşe winced as the beefy, red-faced sailor grasped him by the hair and forced him to his feet. His body trembled at the exertion of holding himself up; he hadn’t eaten in over a week and he’d only managed sips of water on the run.

The captain of the sailor roughly grabbed Ayşe’s chin and tilted it up to peer into his eyes. As he did, a sneer crossed his face and he spat to one side, nose wrinkled in disgust. Both men released Ayşe at the same time and he slumped to the ground, eyes darting around to find something, anything to help him.

He was on a boarding dock bustling with people, sounds and smells. A fishy smell permeated the air, mixed with a sickly sweet scent of rotten fruit and sweat. It took quite a lot of willpower to stop his stomach from roiling from the smells alone. Not to mention the horrible sounds that pierced his ears and made his head throb. Merchant’s shouts, the sounds of livestock being killed with one clean slice of the throat, the thunk of the butcher’s knife hitting thick wood as it passed cleanly through the carcass of a fresh fish, drunken boisterous voices mixed with murmurs of people bickering… It was all too overwhelming to concentrate on one single thing.

Not a single person passing by gave the scene of him and the sailors more than a slightly curious glance; they were used to far worse than two large men bullying a starving young boy. They were more interested in hurrying home before the sun sank and allowed things that shouldn’t see the light of day to come crawling up from the dregs.

He dropped his eyes from the people and merchant’s stands to the dock, trying to stop his sight from getting more blurry. He was going to pass out, and soon. His fingers dug into the dock’s faded wood and he gave a frustrated hiss, earning him a blow to the ribs from the captain’s heavy boot.

“Shut it, ya sadistic l’il freak. I’d know them eyes anywhere… yer from that clan that was s’pose ter be all dead an’ gone. ’Course, wiv that in mind, I’ll betcha anythin’ ya’d fetch quite a purdy price on the market. What say ya, Boyd?”

The beefy man—Boyd—who’d managed to grab Ayşe as he had bent over to sip from a barrel of water, grinned and nodded.

“O’ course, cap’n. Matter o’ fact, we may ’ave even hit a jackpot. Meself, I heard them clan members fetched more’n a million marks back when they was still fairly common. I’d betcha this one’ll fetch even more.”

The captain shoved long locks of greasy black hair back from his grizzled face with a greedy grin, swiping his tongue over his top lip as if tasting the meals he’d feast on for that amount of money.

Ayşe flattened himself to the ground, pressing his forehead against the rough wood of the dock and closing his eyes. Being sold meant horrible things would be done to him, least of all a kick in the ribs. Especially with his eyes—he’d heard members of his clan had been captured and sold to alchemists who’d performed ghastly experiments on them because of their eyes.

He suddenly couldn’t hold back the sickness in his stomach and struggled to his knees, retching miserably only to have bile and the last bit of water from earlier in the day leak from his lips.

“Please don’t,” he begged between heaves of his stomach, his voice coming out in the raspy low voice that was trademark of his clan. Was the trademark of his clan; they had all been brutally slaughtered in the Purge on Ayşe’s sixth name day. That was five years ago.

Another kick knocked him backwards onto his back and his breath left him.

“Disgustin’ ain’t it? I ain’t heard no voice like that in some time. ’e’s definitely one of ’em. Pick ’im up an’ bring ’im back ta the ship. We’ll find us a good dealer who pays high ta sell ’im to.”

Ayşe shrank back as Boyd reached down to grab him, wondering briefly where all of the noise had gone. He just had time to widen his eyes a fraction as realised the sun had set completely, when suddenly Boyd jerked in a weird way and coughed.

It took Ayşe a second to realise the red warmth that had sprayed over his face was from Boyd’s mouth. He gaped as the man looked down, confused, to see a sword covered in blood sticking through his chest. Boyd looked up at Ayşe, his face weirdly contorted, then collapsed into a pile at Ayşe’s feet, red seeping out of chest to stain the wood of the dock.

"M-ma crew member! Yer gunna pay for that, purdy boy.”

The captain didn’t even have time to unsheathe the sword from his belt before he too was killed with a spray of blood. The figure who had killed them both turned towards Ayşe slowly, slim dark sword dripping blood. Ayşe couldn’t stop the shaking in his hands as he watched the figure wearily, wondering what would happen next. With the kind of people that came out in the dark at this place, it was impossible to tell.

“Why hello! Are you alright… Twiggy?”

Ayşe blinked in surprise at the pleasant, happy voice as the figure sheathed his sword and bent down to offer him a hand.

“I… suppose so…” he whispered hoarsely as he reached up and took the figure’s hand. From the voice, it was obvious that the figure was a man. But just what kind of man was he? It was obvious Ayşe needed to be cautious—no one who killed two men and was so cheerful afterwards could be a trustworthy person. “Why did you call me Twiggy?”

The man tried to pull him up, but as soon as Ayşe was on his feet he stumbled again and almost fell. He muttered a curse darkly at his weakness, wishing he had had more time to gather food. But being on the run didn’t allow such time.

“My, my, children shouldn’t curse like that.” The man reached down and scooped him up easily, despite Ayşe’s sound of protest. “And I called you Twiggy because, of course, you look like a twig. Now I’m going to bring you back to my place and get some food into you.”

“No!” Ayşe struck out with a fist, but the man caught it easily in one hand, sighing deeply.

“Look, you have no reason to trust me, really, but if I really wanted to sell you or hurt you or something, I would just do it. You’re too weak to do anything about it.” The man began walking, eyes flickering around and watching the shadows for any sign of movement. “Instead of doing anything bad, I’m simply going to feed you and give you water. Then you can leave. The thing is… I’m not doing this because I feel bad for you or anything.”

Something moved in the shadows and the man shifted Ayşe into one arm as if he were a sack of potatoes, moving his other hand to rest it on his sword. But still, he didn’t stop walking.

Ayşe finally got a good look at the man as they passed by a torch, and he was surprised at the man’s youth. He was a good swordsman with a high quality sword for someone who could only be thirty at most. The torchlight made his hair look orange in colour, but it was obviously a very light shade of blond and fell just above his pale neck messily. In fact, his hair was so messy that a thick strand was situated right between his eyes, framing one side of his sharp nose. It didn’t seem to bother him any, however; he continued watching the shadows tensely, eyes that would probably be a storm gray also glimmering faintly orange.

“Why are you doing it, then?” Ayşe ground out, wondering why a man with the skills and face of a noble was even out on such dirty streets at night. He had to be a noble at least; only members of the High Court had gray eyes. They had all sorts of weird eye colours, though none of them had eyes like his. Thinking of it, he dropped his eyes before the man noticed their strange colouring. Despite what he’d said, Ayşe knew he’d probably sell him in a heartbeat if he knew what Ayşe was worth.

“Hm… Well, you see… I have a woman over at my house. An old friend, really,” the man began in a light conversational tone, never ceasing his watch. “And when she comes over, she cooks for me. But… her cooking sucks.” The man chuckled. “I just need someone to come over and help me eat it. If I don’t eat it all, she’ll skin me alive, tear out my eyes, and castrate me. Because she’d think I didn’t like her cooking.” He shrugged lightly.

Ayşe felt a small tremor of fear; what was a woman like who would do all of that just because someone didn’t like her cooking?

“Oh, by the way, I’m Tobias. And the woman I just told you about, you may want to know her name too, so you can gush to her about how good her food is. ‘Oh, Celeste, this food is simply wonderful!’ Make sure you lay it on thick, or she may just flay you too.”

Ayşe was about to respond when a low growl of a female voice came out of the darkness.

“The ’hell did you just say about my cooking Toby?”

Tobias blinked and jumped back just in time to avoid having his face cut by a sword swung with blinding speed out of the darkness. He backed into the light, holding up his hands and waving them as if in truce.

“Nothing, Celeste, nothing. I was just telling this boy Twiggy here how good your cooking is. You know me, always out to advertise your amazing—”

The sword swung again and Tobias jumped back, only managing to avoid a deep cut across the nose. A thin line of blood welled up on his nose and he moved his hand up from his sword to cover it. Ayşe watched in disbelief, wondering who would attack their own comrade… or friend or… whatever she was to him.

“I heard you, freaking bastard. Want me to carve your pretty face like a pumpkin on Halloween?”

The woman finally stepped into the circle of light, and Ayşe was surprised to see a large, feral grin on her face. Her skin was chocolate brown, rare around those parts, and she had long black hair pulled up into a tight ponytail high on her head. Skin tight black pants and a shirt showed off an impressive array of toned muscles—and fine curves. Though at the time, Ayşe really wasn’t interested in curves of any sort. A sword that could’ve been a replica of the one Tobias had was casually slung over her shoulder; though Ayşe got the feeling she could have it slicing through the air in an instant, regardless of what position it was in. His strange eyes met her liquid gold ones—another noble?—and she suddenly gave a start.

“No, no, Celeste, that’s quite alright. Though you’re adept at carving, I like my face the way it is. If I ever feel the need for change, however, I’ll—”

“The ’hell is this?” the woman demanded, sheathing her sword into a fancy leather hilt at her hip. She had noticed Ayşe’s eyes. He was done for now.

“Oh, this is Twiggy. I picked him up to try your cooking so he could tell his friends that—”

“He has Tristisentia Clan’s eyes.” Ayşe winced as she named his clan. Hearing the name always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Would you stop interrupting everything I say?” Tobias muttered under his breath so only Ayşe could hear. Then he spoke louder for Celeste to hear. “I know, obviously. It’s not something one can hide, really. But it doesn’t matter who he is, he’ll still love your cooking.”

Celeste took two long strides until she stood face to face with Ayşe. He summoned up the last of his strength to give her an icy glare. He didn’t want to be afraid forever; he wanted to preserve his clan’s pride.

Suddenly, Celeste barked out a laugh and ruffled his hair, much to his shock.

“I like this feisty kid. Starving, but still manages a sassy glare. Okay, Tobias, I’ll give you the fact that you did one good thing tonight. I came out looking for you because you were late, but because you got this kid I can forgive you.”

Ayşe heard a barely audible sigh of relief as Celeste turned and began walking confidently out into the dark. She didn’t turn as she called out in a loud voice, “We’ll feed him until he’s fat and send him on his way. Yep, I like the sound of that.”

Tobias grinned as he caught up with Celeste in a few graceful strides.

“I like the sound of that, too.”

Celeste only paused for a second to give Tobias an annoyed glare. “Stop your damn sucking up, you cheerful bastard. I may have forgiven you for being late, but I sure as hell won’t forgive you for insulting my cooking.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The clang of steel rang across the large courtyard as the two swordsmen in the middle exchanged blows. Jaelyle watched with a distant interest, his attention straying to the young girl on the other side of the courtyard.

Delicate, tiny, and graceful, Princess Keaira was the perfect model of what a royal lady should be like. She watched the fight with her small, pale hands folded daintily in her lap, and gasped at all of the appropriate times as her handmaids fanned her. Every time she shifted, she would gently adjust her dress so it flowed to the tips of her satin slippers and didn’t show the slightest bit of ankle. As the fight ended, she applauded with quiet, dainty claps and a kind smile to show the two fighters she thought they’d done a wonderful job.

The whole show made Jaelyle’s lips curl in disgust. The girl sitting across from him was quite possibly one of the cruelest people he’d ever known, and she enjoyed causing others pain more than anything. Oh, she looked innocent alright, but she was evil straight down to her delicate, dainty bones. And she was to be his wife.

Jaelyle closed his eyes and rubbed his temple in frustration, almost missing the fact that both of the men who had fought had approached him.

“My lord, was our training exercise satisfactory to you?”

“…I suppose. Lysander, you need to work more on your footwork when you parry. And Weston, you strike a heavy blow but it leaves you with too many openings. I suggest you practise fixing these things before your next exercise. Although overall, the two of you have greatly improved. Good work today, men. Dismissed.”

Lysander looked exceptionally pleased with the praise, his freckled face twisting into a large grin as he practically skipped past Jaelyle down the stone corridor that led into and out of the courtyard. Weston, however, was less than thrilled to have his fighting so easily evaluated by a thirteen year old boy. Even if that thirteen year old boy was to be the next king and was a so-called child prodigy in war strategy and sword fighting. Of course, being born and raised specifically to lead armies and be a killing machine could play a factor in his being a ‘prodigy.’

“Many thanks… my lord,” Weston growled as he slipped past Jaelyle to follow Lysander. It was a great sign of disrespect, but someone as low down as Weston would never be able to do anything more than disrespect him, so Jaelyle let it slide.

He gritted his teeth and strode out from under the gray marble arch—everything was cold and gray in this palace—attaching the corridor to the courtyard to make his way over to the princess. When he reached her, he dropped to one knee and took one of her dainty hands, pressing his lips against it for a second. It made him want to retch.

“Oh, no need to bow to me, my love,” Keaira giggled from her perch atop a chair covered in thick, red satin. Nothing but the best for the next queen of the country. She even got the best military prodigy as her husband to go play war while she ruled.

Jaelyle rose, knowing he should smile but unable to wipe the cold, hard glare off of his face. “I would prefer it if you didn’t refer to me with that title, my lady,” he growled, his forced formality sounding even more stiff than it had when he’d spoken to Lysander and Weston. He hated the farce he had to put up—there were few people he could talk casually to.

“Oh, my love, your jests are so funny.”

She reached out to rest a hand on his cheek, her smile widening as he flinched at her cold touch. She was as cold as a corpse.

“But you mustn’t jest so much. People may think you’re disrespecting me. And don’t think you can, just because you have one year of life’s experience on me.”

She giggled as if it were a joke, but she dug her nails into the side of his face so hard he cried out in pain and leapt away from her. Blood beaded up where she’d touched him and began to trickle down his face. He fought back the urge to unsheathe the simple silver dagger he kept hidden in his tunic and run her through with it. He’d never get close enough, anyway—her guards would kill him in a flash.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he ground out, backing away slowly. “But I would like to retire to my room now.”

She inclined her head slightly, as if wondering whether to continue torturing him with her presence or not. In the end, he guessed the fact that she’d be able to torture him for life was good enough because she gave him a gracious nod and made a grand, sweeping gesture with her hand as if to say ‘run along then.’ And he did. He ran as if the devil himself was after him, only stopping for breath when he was well inside the castle.

Yes, Jaelyle stayed in a castle. He wasn’t a prince, but he was a very high noble, a privilege his father had earned by carrying out a gruesome task requested by the king. It wasn’t something Jaelyle liked to think about, so he put it out of his mind as he took in some deep breaths, squared his shoulders and let a cold mask of impassivity drift onto his face. It was the face he’d been taught to put on by his father at the very beginning of his training—the face of a killer, his father said.

“My lord,” servants mumbled and hastily moved out of his way as he strode through the castle, taking in familiar sights. Massive pictures of generations of kings and queens who’d lived in the castle covered the tall stone walls and made it seem as if you were always being looked down upon, especially with the arrogant smirks on each of the royal’s faces. The carefully carved stone floor was almost all covered by red carpeting with golden edging, showing that the king didn’t care about the fact that the builders had spent hours carving beautiful designs into the floor to make it look less plain. Every few feet tall archways opened into new chambers and new corridors, each lushly decorated with rich tapestries, many including incredibly detailed wooden furnishings. The closer one got to the main hall, the more incredible and rich everything got, until you came out into an immense dining room with a lengthy oak table that could fit nearly two hundred people for a banquet.

But Jaelyle didn’t keep going straight, which would’ve led him to the main hall. He turned, following his nose and the scent of the finest roast served in all of the land.

“Asher.”

A boy who looked about seventeen with carrot orange hair fluffed about his head turned to find Jaelyle leaning against the expansive doorframe of the kitchen. The bustling, busy kitchen with about twenty people chopping up food as quickly as they could on a table barely large enough for ten.

The boy—Asher—wiped his hands on his stained leather apron, earning white streaks of flour all down it, and emerged from the kitchen to meet Jaelyle at the doorway.

“How goes it, my fine little military brat?”

Jaelyle scowled, his dark green eyes seeming to turn black with anger.

“I’ll kill her. I want to. I’d enjoy it.”

Asher let out a low whistle under his breath. Though Jaelyle was a genius military commander, he was still only a thirteen year old boy. Though it was hard to remember most of the time—he’d already killed more men than Asher ever would in his life. Because the kid’s father was tough on him, he’d appointed Jaelyle as his apprentice executioner on Jaelyle’s tenth birthday. Since then, the kid had to have killed at least twenty people. With the same cold, expressionless look he wore now as he claimed to want to kill someone. Asher sighed and slung his arm onto the boy’s head—Jaelyle was almost half a foot shorter than him, though he had a much larger presence.

“Don’t do it, kid. You never know—maybe she’ll die young because of her frail health and you’ll get to rule all by yourself. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Sometimes Asher considered poisoning the soon-to-be queen. She’d make one of the worst rulers in history, with her sadistic streak a mile wide. All of the servants knew it because they saw more than anyone, but the people outside of the castle—most of the nobles—thought she was just the sweetest little thing. Besides, Asher thought of Jaelyle as a little brother though he’d never been able to crack the boy’s extensive armour, and he didn’t want to see the kid have to suffer at her hands for the rest of his life.

“We all know she pretends to have frail health. Don’t be such a fool.”

As always, Jaelyle spoke in a clipped, cold voice as he shook off Asher’s arm and stepped into the kitchen, peering around with his brow still furrowed. Asher often wondered why the kid still came to see him; it didn’t really seem like he liked him. Of course, it didn’t seem like he liked anyone. Asher wished someday someone could crack that armour because he knew the cold harshness wasn’t all there was to the boy.

He waltzed up to the kid again and poked a finger between Jaelyle’s eyes.

“Quit that scowling, kid, you’re too young to get lines on your eyes. And I know what you’re looking for. We have a couple of scraps of tough meat the royals wouldn’t want that you can have. Man, are you ever small for someone with such a large appetite.”

Jaelyle didn’t bother replying; he only waited expectantly as Asher swung past other cooks and dodged carried serving trays with practised ease. He had been the head cook for almost one year. If Jaelyle was a prodigy of war strategy, then Asher could be called a prodigy of cooking strategy. He came up with new dishes pleasing to the eye and tongue nearly every night.

He weaved past knives flashing through the air to finally reach some buckets of scraps. One had been left aside especially for Jaelyle because Asher figured he’d be in some time or another. He scooped it up, did some fancy twists to avoid death by cooking tools, and presented Jaelyle the bucket with a flourish.

“Your meal, my lord.” His eyes sparkled mischievously and Jaelyle couldn’t help the side of his mouth from curling up ever so slightly, though he kept his eyes cold.

“Thank you, Asher.”

Jaelyle was just exiting the kitchen when a chill made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He tensed, slowly turning towards the way he’d come to get the kitchen.

Princess Keaira stood there with only her closest serving maid as an escort, her ever present smile making Jaelyle want to turn and flee the room, the castle, the entire country if it meant he’d never have to see that slightly mocking smirk again.

“I see you’ve become friends with our dear cook, my love. That’s nice, though I’m sure keeping your fiancée company would be a much more pleasurable experience. I hope you realize I’m always here for you, and always will be. I’m the one—the only one—you can truly turn to.”

Jaelyle stiffened, knowing exactly what she meant. He nodded one hard, quick nod and was about to retire to his room when Asher spoke from the doorway he had been leaning against as he’d watched the scene.

“Well, my lady, you know what they say—if you can turn to ’em, you can turn away from ’em. That’s the Vraalk saying, right?”

Keaira’s eyes glittered dangerously and she turned, striding back the way she came from without another word. Jaelyle turned to stare at Asher in disbelief.

“That was—”

“Defending a friend, kid. That’s what it was. Nothing to it.” Asher grinned and reached over to ruffle Jaelyle’s hair. “Now go and get some rest, I’ve got something extra special prepared for tonight. Your taste buds will weep with joy.” He gave Jaelyle a quick wink and then disappeared into the kitchen, shouting orders.

Jaelyle turned and began wandering back to his room, reaching into the bucket to pull out the scraps of meat. They were surprisingly tender, for meat that wouldn’t suit a royal’s taste. In fact, a royal would love… Oh. Of course. Asher was one of the kindest people Jaelyle had ever met, and though he’d never let it show, he thought of the older boy as a brother. Showing it would be dangerous though—his father told him not to care for anyone, and if he did not to show it.

He finally reached his chambers, breathing the scent of incense deeply into his nose. He always had incense burning in his room; it calmed him and allowed his trained senses to relax for a long enough time to sleep.

He didn’t bother changing from his tunic specially crafted for training; he simply collapsed into the huge, luxurious bed situated on the far corner of the expansive room. Golden silk sheets ruffled gently under his weight, and russet wooden bedposts shifted slightly. Though every bit as lavish as any other room in the castle in terms of carpeting and wooden carvings, Jaelyle’s room was relatively bare. Only one tapestry lay over one of the ornate stone walls; a velvet tapestry depicting a war scene with a man resembling his father leading an army into a sea of blood. It was gruesome, but decidedly beautiful. Jaelyle hated it however, because he knew his father had it placed there for him to see his own future every night.

He turned from it and gazed out over the balcony on the other side of his bed. The sprawling city of Yzaran, the largest city in the entire kingdom, stretched over the land like a blight growing across crops. A disgusting smell wafted up from it; the scent of blood, death and rottenness. With the new king, Keaira’s father, the city had degraded into a horrible place where the rich dominated the ever growing population of poor and dissolute. Houses that used to be grand and filled with music and laughter were now falling down, homes to stray animals. Some of those animals were people. As he watched, a man in a narrow alleyway far from the castle spoke to another man with exaggerated hand movements, getting more and more agitated until it seemed he punched the other man in the chest. But a punch in the chest wouldn’t make someone fall to the ground and go still as death, feeding blood to the thirsty ground, which soaked it up as easily as rain. Of course, crimson puddles were likely more common around this place than clear ones.

“My kingdom,” Jaelyle spat out in disgust, turning to gaze at the blank ceiling. Everywhere he turned, left and right, destruction and desolation rose up. It was getting to be almost too hard to ignore. A sense of growing unease permeated his gut. Everyone said there’d be another war soon, and he’d be expected to dutifully annihilate the other army to protect this hell hole. So much for having an actual childhood. Not that he’d had one anyway.

He allowed a small sigh to escape his lips as he closed his eyes. Darkness was much better than anything outside of his spacious room. Or inside it, for that matter. A chuckle escaped his lips as he thought about how most of the important people right now—head cook, near-head-commander-to-be-king, and princess soon-to-be queen—were children.

“Just kids playing adults,” he whispered harshly as darkness overcame him. Innocence was bitter in these times.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Jaelyle awoke to the sound of the ceremonious dinner bell ringing. He stifled a yawn and rose, stepping lightly out of his bed and almost tripping over the bucket still half full of good meat. He’d have to give it to Asher later, when he returned to the kitchen to praise the incredible meal Asher had promised.

When he reached the dinner table and took his seat beside Princess Keaira, he was alarmed to see her smile in a satisfied way. She’d obviously gotten something she’d wanted. She didn’t say a word, however, only gave him the slightest of nods and smirked at her plate. Serving girls began coming out with silver platters, placing each one carefully in front of the six others seated at the table.

The king and his most trusted warriors were noticeably absent, as well as the queen and several high lords. Another meeting about the expected upcoming war then. Jaelyle wasn’t surprised he hadn’t been invited; ‘no point inviting any of the commanders if it wasn’t yet wartime’ was a saying of the king’s. This stupidity was another reason the king was horrible at leading the kingdom.

“Aren’t you hungry, my love?” Keaira asked in a sickly sweet voice.

Jaelyle glanced down at her platter, surprised at the food’s simplicity. The appetizer wasn’t nearly as grand as Asher normally had it; only a light soup sprinkled with common spices. His stomach roiled with a deep unease as he reached for the handle of his own platter. The murmuring of the guests seemed to fade away as he lifted it.

“Oh my goodness! The _head_ chef!”

He scarcely heard Keaira’s thinly veiled taunt. It wasn’t soup on the platter. It wasn’t soup at all.


End file.
